


we both wake in lonely beds, different cities

by frostings



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:20:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3062423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostings/pseuds/frostings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen survives, and moves on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we both wake in lonely beds, different cities

_you’ve got your demons and darling, they all look like me._

 

Knight-Captain Cullen did not trust the Fade.  

It did not even matter that he did not remember his dreams—just the thought of slipping through the Veil as he slept was a waking nightmare in itself. It did not even matter that under normal circumstances, non-mages like himself were not susceptible to the clutches of the demons that resided in Fade. All that mattered—the thing that kept him awake—was that for the few hours that anyone slept, they walked in the same realm as those foul and unholy things.

For years and years, he had fought the necessity of sleep, that impossible task. He only allowed sleep when he was stretched thin with exhaustion, when the words blurred on the parchment he was reading, ensuring a dreamless and unremembered stretch of time. The dark bruises under his eyes slowly became a permanent fixture on his features, and he began to look the part of the haunted templar that the new recruits whispered of.

These days, that hurdle was becoming easier. Or at least, it was becoming a more regular part of his routine. The Gallows was a cold and hard place; it fit him perfectly, it was just what he needed. He did get strange looks at first when he demurred getting a comfortable living space that befitted his rank.  _Oh, one of those men,_ the elves seemed to think,  _the suffering he chose willingly some part of vain show to the Maker that he’s better than everyone else here._ But he really didn’t care about what they thought—his only request upon his arrival was that his shifts be arranged around his irregular sleep pattern. Knight-Commander Meredith first thought this an absurd request, but once caught him sleeping in a broom closet, and so told him to stay put in the Gallows Courtyard, upright, to keep him awake.

Some part of him prayed that his difficulties would only serve in glorifying the Maker and strengthening his resolve. He tried to ignore the fact that his undignified napping on a chair an hour at a time, four hours a day, probably wasn’t going to be taken down as an act of extraordinary heroism of one of a defender of the Faith.

But this fact remained true: To sleep was to walk in the Fade, and Cullen would never go there willingly.

 

———-

“You know that the Veil is thin in Kirkwall, do you not?” Knight-Commander Greagoir had asked him as Cullen stood in his office.

“Yes, sir.”

The older templar scratched his greying beard thoughtfully as he pored over Cullen’s transfer request. Cullen tried not to think about the fact that he was here, again, in the tower, where…he instead focused on Greagoir’s forehead.

“I’ll be frank with you Cullen; I’m very pleased with your progress in Greenfell.” Greagoir said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I had been a little too hopeful, perhaps, for you to take up your position again here in Kinloch Hold after the favorable reports.” The Commander met his eyes, and there was a hint of apology in them. “But that is too much to ask of you, I can see that now.”

“I-I’m sorry to have disappointed you, ser, I—” The apology came tumbling out of his lips, a knee-jerk reaction. He didn’t want Greagoir looking at him like that. He didn’t want anyone to look at him like that, like he was something to be pitied. He could still stay, if Greagoir really wanted him to.

He saw the decision surface on Greagoir’s face, take root in his eyes. The Knight-Commander shook his head. “Knight-Commander Meredith is a difficult taskmaster, but I think you will do well under her guidance,” he said as he searched through his desk for his quill. “I may have to write to her about…the incident, in full, and the aftermath. I hope that is alright with you, Cullen.”

Cullen did his best to try and look sedate. He would have preferred if Greagoir didn’t, but even the Knight-Commander himself must have heard the malicious rumors that swirled around him following his survival. Instead of being painted in a sympathetic light, mages had taken the opportunity to make him out to be a crazed mage hater who killed apprentices in fits of rage. It was hard not to be that person. It was still hard to try and not to be that person, when mages cringed and retreated at the sight of him, as if it wasn’t their evil and their corruption that caged him, when…

“Cullen!”

Cullen shook his head, abashed. “I’m sorry, ser. What were you saying, ser?”

Greagoir sighed heavily. “Never mind. You are dismissed, Cullen. I believe you still have some packing up to do before you go.” The Knight-Commander stretched out one hand. “It’s been an honor serving beside you, Cullen. Maker watch over you.”

“Maker watch over you, ser.” Cullen echoed. He bowed and retreated, and it was only when the door shut behind him did he realize that he had just said goodbye to the closest thing he’d had for a father.

He lingered at the hallway, unsure of what to do, until he was conscious that the other templars on duty were giving him strange looks. Cullen didn’t know any one of them. Not one. His eyes slid over one unfamiliar recruit and noticed a new portrait hanging right behind him.

His blood ran cold.

“What is  ** _that?_** ” Cullen didn’t mean to sound so severe, but the young templar startled at his voice.

“What do you mean ser?”

“That portrait—what is that?”

The templar swiveled to look at the offending portrait. “It’s—it’s a portrait of the Hero of Ferelden, serah.”

Cullen knew that. Of course, he knew that. Mages had portraits made upon successfully completing the Harrowing. It was a tradition, a gift from the senior enchanters, and was also used for documentation purposes.

Amell gazed back at him with a grave face, hands clutching an etched staff. She was wearing standard-issue mage robes, a somber moss green. She had a haunted look on her face, as if she had just woken up from her Harrowing. She probably just did. Amell in those days…looked so young, and so unsure.

“I know what it is,” Cullen said, almost snarling. “Why is it  _here?_  She is—was—a mage!”

The young templar looked at him as if he couldn’t believe what he was being asked. “She—the Warden saved the Tower! She rescued  _you_! C-Commander Greagoir said that we must not forget her sacrifices and great deeds.”

Cullen wanted nothing more than to tear down the portrait from where it hung. The templar looked like he was about to flee from his murderous glare. Amell only stared back, empty and mute and unknowing. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” he snarled, stalking off.

He couldn’t have left at a better time. All throughout Ferelden, people were beginning to put up memorial statues of the Warden.

———-

“Are you alright, Cullen?”

“I wish I could’ve gone with them…to fight.”

“What do you mean?” Amell had asked, as they stood in the ruin of what used to be their home, as her companions fidgeted uncomfortably.

But Cullen merely stared ahead and tried to forget her face.

———-

A Sister of the Chantry once asked him how was it that he had survived.

“I prayed,” he answered, refusing to say more.

———

“These disgusting lies must be put to an end, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen did not answer, instead choosing to cross his arms behind his back, breathing evenly.

Knight-Commander Meredith leaned back on her seat and studied his face carefully. Her sharp blue eyes seemed to pierce through skin, but Cullen made sure she would see nothing there.  He was surprised how easily that came to him, now that he thought about it.

“The Hero of Ferelden indeed!” Meredith scoffed, satisfied with whatever it was she saw. She threw the offending letter down on her table, a gossipy missive from a new recruit to their sister. “A fairy story, anyone from Lowtown can invent trash like this.”

“Lies are always best when they are balanced with a grain of truth,” Cullen supplied helpfully. “I’m sure you know that I had served for a few years when the Warden was still an apprentice in the Circle Tower.”

“And?”  

“And nothing.” Cullen shrugged. “We hardly spoke—not exactly the stuff of epic love stories, is it?”

Meredith laughed derisively. He could see that she was relieved.  She quickly controlled her features again, though. “I want this disgusting lie at an end. All recruits will be severely punished for spreading this rumor about their Knight-Captain, a blatant lack of respect for authority. Anyone caught passing this on, will be suspended. All recruits will not be allowed outside the Gallows for two weeks.”

“Yes, Knight-Commander.”

Meredith sighed. “I am sure that this Warden was a good, upstanding sort—rare for a mage, but it happens. But such stories about you and her can be very damaging for you, Cullen. It doesn’t matter for her, since she’s dead, but you understand, don’t you Cullen?”

He felt his back stiffen. “I understand, Knight-Commander.”

She darted her eyes at him—was there something she caught? “Good. Dismissed, Captain.”

———

He’d stood guardian over Amell and her fellow mages for three years before she ever spoke to him.

She had paused near one of the windows, smelling faintly of herbs and the heavy tomes she was carrying. Her eyes were fixed on the darkening skies, the streak of lightning.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s raining.”

“Yes,” he said. “It-it is.”

She startled at the sound of his voice, looked at him, and smiled. Amell smiled easily those days.

He was young, then. It didn’t take much for him to fall.

———

Cullen only ever dreamt about the past. His past figured largely in his nightmares, too. Uldred drowning in a sea of rotting flesh, mages torn from limb to limb, the deranged laughter of his former brothers-in-arms, lulled into delusions by desire demons. People had gotten used to his screams as he slept.

But Amell, Amell, Amell. Always Amell. Always her, flitting around the corners of the Tower, always a little beyond his reach. Or tempting him, pleading with him,  _“Please Cullen I love you so much, please take me away, take me away from this horrible place. We can be together, and we can be happy! Please Cullen!”_ But whenever she pleaded, her flesh melted away from her face, revealing the demon underneath.

He hated her with every fibre of his being when he awoke. Even dragons must hate the chink in their hides, he thought, rubbing his chest. She was a barb in his being, that what she was. He would do anything to have her ripped out.

Outside, a streak of lightning cracked the sky, followed by the rain.

———

Greagoir had warned him that the Veil was thin in the Gallows. But then again, most Circles were situated similarly—decades of great power nurtured and abused in one place was bound to do that.

_Greagoir. What a strange thing to remember at this time_ , Cullen thought as he made his way back to the Gallows. He had just stopped a group of brigands who tried to waylay their incoming stock of lyrium at the Wounded Coast. Cullen only had three recruits with him, and the battle stretched out longer than it should have thanks to the largely-untested templars. They had come out victorious of course, but he made a mental note to give the newer recruits more difficult tasks in the future to toughen them up more.

Upon his return to the Gallows, he had his wounds checked out as soon as he reported to the Knight-Commander. Nothing serious, but he suffered a particularly nasty blow from a mace hitting him squarely in the chest. The healer had told him to rest after giving him his dose of lyrium, and his body was only all too willing to slip into sleep, even against his will.

———

Cullen woke up with a start.

He had fallen asleep standing up again. He stretched his neck and groaned a little. It was amazing what lengths his body would go to get some sleep. He needed to work more on that.

He glanced around. Hallways empty, no sign of trouble.

Then, the pit-patter of raindrops outside.

“Oh.”

He felt his body go cold. That voice. He did not want to look.

She sighed. “It’s raining.”

He could smell her—the tomes, heavy in her arms, the scent of elfroot.

Amell stood next to him, leaning against the window ledge. He forced his eyes forward, and said nothing.

The rain began to pour harder.

“Aren’t you going to say hello, Cullen?”

_This is the Fade. This is not real._

“Yes, this is the Fade, you’re right.” She was standing right in front of him now, books now gone. But instead of her mage robes, she was bedecked in Grey Warden uniform, the griffon insignia across her chest, splattered with blood. Her blood or something else’s, he did not know. “I’m not—I’m not even supposed to be here. At least, I think so.”

“I care not, spirit.” His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “I am not playing your game. Away with you!”

She had that look she had when she last spoke to him, before she died. Like she wanted to say more, but dared not to. “As you wish, serah.”

He blinked, and she was gone.

—————

"The famous Knight-Captain Cullen! So we meet at last!"

Cullen bowed formally. “Your Majesty.”

King Alistair waved him off. “I apologize for summoning you out of hand; I understand you’ve been training recruits when I arrived.” The King looked around Cullen’s office, looking every bit the jailor’s cell it used to be. “You look like you’ve done well for yourself here,” the King said, although he didn’t sound very convinced.

“My new position keeps me busy. A Templar’s job is never done, as you know, your Majesty.” Cullen replied, just for something to say.

“Quite right.” An awkward silence fell, and the King actually looked down and twiddled his thumbs. Cullen didn’t have to guess that the King’s initial meeting with Meredith didn’t go well, and he was treading carefully to see whether he would get the same reception from the Knight-Captain.

“I hope your trip here has been fruitful, your Majesty,” Cullen said at length.

“Ha! Well, not as much as I would’ve liked, no.”

“Oh.”

Then the awkward silence again.

The King sighed heavily. “Look,” he began, leaning on his knees. “I’m here on account of our…mutual acquaintance. I remember you, from the Tower, you see.”

“I see.” Cullen stood up and walked over to the small side table. He poured two drinks for himself and for the King. He was not a drinker, not really, but he kept the spirits nearby just in case.

This was definitely one of those cases.

“Thank you,” the King accepted the proffered drink. “I know this sounds strange, but she asked me to…well, make sure you were alright. The day before we marched to Denerim. At that point, I was willing to promise her anything after I let her down.”

Ah, yes. The sad end to their romance was almost as famous as Amell herself. She made him King and got herself into an early grave as her thanks. “So, you wanted to make sure I didn’t kill all those mage apprentices, I take it?” Cullen meant to sound sarcastic, but it came out tasting a little more bitter than he liked.

King Alistair looked at him in frank surprise. “No, of course not! I mean,” he gulped down the spirits, eyes smarting from the alcohol. “She wasn’t exactly forthcoming with what she meant to check if you were alright, I mean she was kind of busy with the archdemon and all and there were darkspawn business so she never really clarified, so I guess what I’m trying to say—very badly I may add—is…well…are you alright?” The King winced, sounding every bit as apologetic as he looked.

Leave it to Amell to try and make sure everyone was alright, even from beyond the grave. She always helped the apprentices with their studies, and her friendship with Jowan started in a similar vein.

But what was he supposed to say to the King of Ferelden?  _Well, your Majesty, I’d be alright if you gave me an arldom, that would be super, thank you._  But the King was waiting, and Cullen realized that he was taking his promise very seriously.

“I am doing well, your Majesty. Kirkwall has been good to me,” Cullen finally replied. “I’m…alright.”

Alistair peered at him suspiciously. “You sure? Because I have a ship back to Ferelden waiting for me, and you could have the best cabin in the ship, if you want to go back.”

“Maybe it would be better for the refugees who wish to go back, your Majesty.” Cullen responded, smiling slightly.

King Alistair nodded, and stood up. Cullen followed suit.

“I won’t be taking up your time any longer, Knight-Captain,” the King said, serious again. “But before I go, I think you should have this.” He reached over and handed Cullen a gilded pocketwatch.

Cullen felt his jaw go slack as he looked down at the timepiece and back up to the King. It was a beautiful timepiece, gilded in gold and silver, the Amell crest discreetly etched on the back. One of the few treasures she had kept, and as he understood, one of the remaining Amell treasures that survived the family’s downfall. She had used it often, too, and was always in time for her classes or any tasks that she was sent to do. It was an instrument advanced of its time, and even most nobilities in Kirkwall did not own one.

“I figured it was innocuous enough,” the King said, hinting of a knowledge more than he let on.  “It’s not magical, so you don’t have to worry about that either.”

“Your Majesty, I don’t think I can accept this…” Cullen began. The King held a hand up, brooking any opposition.

“Take it. It never felt right having it after she died,” the King blinked quickly as he said this. “You can write to me anytime you need a favor, Knight-Captain. But in the meantime, I think this trinket should do.”

A trinket that could probably buy half the mansions in Hightown. “I don’t know what to say but…thank you. I’ll take care of it. I know she meant the world to you,” Cullen found himself saying.

Alistair smiled sadly at that. “Yes. But it wasn’t enough, wasn’t it?” Strange how this suddenly felt like a mourning. “Maker watch over you, Knight-Captain.”

—————

A mage apprentice spat in his face the other day, yet it was Cullen who had to restrain the Templar recruit who tried to retaliate in his name.

—————

Amell never appeared to him in his dreams again. But his nightmares slowly began to cease wearing her face.

—————

Grand Cleric Elthina once requested a meeting with him, and asked, in careful language, how was it that he survived the fate the other templars in the Tower fell to.

Cullen listened long to the Chant of Light being sung from the outside as he reached to close one hand over the timepiece he hid in his pocket. The Grand Cleric was patient, understanding. She would keep his confidence, he knew.

“The demons wore the Hero of Ferelden’s face, Grand Cleric,” he confessed. “They wore it too often, and that was how I knew it was a lie.”

“Yes, you were in the Tower together, for a time,” Elthina nodded.

He sensed she was still waiting for her answer. “Grand Cleric—Amell…she would never ask anything from me. Never wanted anything from me,” Cullen smiled. “And that is how I knew.”

—————

Standing in the Gallows courtyard wasn’t the best way to tell Hawke that he was doing all he could for the mages, within his ability. But Cullen wanted to.

Hawke shifted from one foot to the other, and glanced up the sky. “Looks like the sun’s finally going to come out,” The Champion remarked. It had been raining for a few days, and he hadn’t been around. “Just wanted to check up on an old friend.”

Cullen smiled. “I’m alright, Hawke.”

And today, it sounded like it could be a little bit true.  

FIN


End file.
